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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23794750">chains of service</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthpumpkinspice/pseuds/darthpumpkinspice'>darthpumpkinspice</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games), Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Hate Sex, Humiliation, M/M, POV Second Person, Possessive Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Smut, Somewhat non-linear narrative, nameless Sith Warrior, some minor sweet stuff at the very end</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:54:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,395</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23794750</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthpumpkinspice/pseuds/darthpumpkinspice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Wrath's duty is to obey his Emperor in all things - meanwhile, Arcann has always coveted his father's possessions.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arcann/Male Sith Warrior, Malavai Quinn/Male Sith Warrior (mentioned), Tenebrae | Vitiate | The Sith Emperor/Male Sith Warrior, The Sith Emperor/Male Sith Warrior, Valkorion/Male Sith Warrior, Vette/Male Sith Warrior (implied)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>74</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>chains of service</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Look I'm not actually totally sure why I wrote this! But I figured we don't have enough Arcann pairings before he was redeemed, and I was honestly surprised there weren't more fics digging into the SW's potential for weird devotion to their Emperor... so hey! Ta-da! </p><p>it's POV second person, mostly because using the third person became way too exhausting since I refused to give this Sith Warrior a name. This isn't a specific character- just the Wrath in general, borrowing from the general elements of the story. Obviously some things are specific- gender, species, and certain aspects of his appearance. But I did want to keep it as vague as I could get away with. </p><p>this is probably the darkest sexual thing i've written, but like- hope you enjoy... I guess?! Feel free to drop a kudo or a comment!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the beginning, you were a child, as most creatures born from the coupling of mothers and fathers tend to be. But in the way Sith measure it, you are only <em>truly</em> a person once you belong to someone else. The Empire is a fine, delicate contraption made of billions of interconnected relationships between servant and master and master and servant that weave a net that – followed long enough- stretches all the way up to the ultimate Master, Vitiate – the only being in the galaxy free from another’s chains.</p><p>So by the traditions of the Sith Order, in the beginning, you were Darth Baras’s.</p>
<hr/><p>Vette stands tall beside you as you confront the Sand Demon, and though her fear stains the Force around her, her hands are steady around her blaster, and her eyes sparkle with a trusting humor when she meets your gaze. You think this is when you start to fall in love with her, and your chest clenches when you realize that for all her bravery, all her loyalty, she will never be considered the equal of a human in the eyes of the Empire. You both serve the Sith, as all in the Empire must, but her servitude is much more insidious and her chains weigh heavier than yours, as they have been created from her own alien genetic code.</p><p>You have never had to confront this before. The unfairness built into the hierarchy was always an abstract concern, one that could be contemplated in a lazy, theoretical way. But now, as your heart pounds like a war drum against your ribs, and the great beast of the desert takes a thunderous step forward, you feel like a complete fool. You do not think there are many Sith who would willingly greet this danger with you, and fewer still who would do it as unflinchingly as her. You resent that weaker, craven creatures would be elevated above her, praised and venerated in song, while her courage is destined to be, at best, confined to dry footnotes in dusty tomes only the most ardent historians will care to read.</p><p>A childish hope springs to life inside of you: that one day, when the Emperor, your god in all but name, returns to his people, he will usher in a new era for the galaxy. A true meritocracy, where all beings forged in the fires of war will have equal opportunities to prove their might. A world where the genuinely strong will rise above the rest, carried to glory by virtue of their own efforts.  </p><p>Later, you will think that this errant, rebellious thought is what knocks you off the path of a true Sith- the gilded path laid out before you thanks to nothing more than your prestigious bloodline. A part of you comes undone, and when you visit the mirrored waters of the Oasis, the reflection that waits for you is dark, and shimmers with malice.</p>
<hr/><p>When you are the Wrath, and no longer Baras's, you finally meet your God. The Hand tells you that he has become trapped, and so you travel to a strange world fought over between two people who were once the same- an ancient rift that has inflicted a wound upon the land that bleeds nightmares and dangerous prophecy. You brave bloodthirsty monsters and visions and shadow creatures, all to free your lord. When you finally arrive at his prison, you sense him in the Force before you see him, a swell of dark, terrible power that saturates the entire chamber. And within it, at the vortex, is your Lord, as impassive and calm as the eye of a storm. He is in a Voss body, tall and slender, with sharp, alien features. He is beautiful, in the way a jungle cat is beautiful, and when he looks to you, you can abruptly feel a shard of his will peeling back your mental defenses, leaving your mind bare before him. In any other being, you would think this a violation of the worst kind, but he is beyond other beings, and so you do not even think to oppose this intrusion. He bids you approach, and so you do, and when he tells you to kneel you sink to the floor so fast you make yourself dizzy.</p><p>He seems pleased by your obedience, and his lips briefly twitch into a strange semblance of a smile. “You are mine,” he utters, in a voice as old and dry as the sands of the Endless Waste. It is not a voice that would ordinarily come from the mouth of an otherwise youthful body, and a prickle of unease creeps down your spine despite yourself at the incongruity of it. Still, he is your immortal Lord, your half-divine Master, and you bow your head in supplication before him.</p><p>“I am yours,” you agree, though you know it was not a question.</p><p>Long, cold fingers tilt your chin up towards him, and you tremble at his touch. Dormant power rustles around him, and without a word he opens his robe to expose his cock. In this moment, you desire nothing more than <em>his</em> desire, and you are tantalized by the opportunity to fuel the passion of the greatest being in the galaxy. You open your mouth obligingly, and he slips himself past your lips.</p><p>The scent of dust and decay invades your mouth, and it lingers even as you swallow and salivate around his length. He tastes like ancient rot, you think, and you shiver slightly. His hand fists into your hair, gripping it tightly with an iron strength that his frail body belies, but he makes no further effort to control your movements. The touch is… possessive, not demanding.</p><p>“My righteous wrath,” he grates out a low, hoarse purr. You do not detect any discomfort in his voice, but he sounds utterly <em>parched</em> nevertheless, and you wonder how long this body he inhabits has gone without the taste of food or water. You wonder too, how long he has been deprived the sensations of the flesh. Eager to satisfy him, you double your ministrations, gagging slightly as you choke him down, and you find yourself in awe of him- at the <em>will </em>it must’ve taken for him to sustain himself.</p><p>You continue to suck and lick with as much reverence as you can safely display without accidentally asphyxiating yourself, and you let your devotion bleed past you into your aura. You hope he can sense it. But despite your most dutiful efforts, he does not move a fraction of a degree- not his hips, nor the hand against your head. Neither does he let out any hint of a sound. When you look up, he might as well be carved from stone. If it were not for his erection, you’d probably fear he’d forgotten you were there altogether. You’re beginning to suspect that this has very little to do with physical pleasure at all, as much as that idea is anathema to you.</p><p>For you are young, and you are Sith, and you have thrived off of the carnal delights you can share with other men and women. These pleasures feed you, bring you closer to the base truth of your body, and that in turn strengthens your connection with the living Force. But the Emperor continues to stare down at you with eyes like glowing coals, aloof and unblinking, and you slowly realize that this is nothing more than a display of dominance over his newest servant. A test of your dedication. He wants to know that you are content to serve him in any way he desires, and that you are comfortable on your <em>knees</em>. He does not want to risk another traitor or usurper speaking on his behalf.</p><p>You are sure he has seen this thought, for he finally smiles in full, and it is a supremely terrifying expression. You find you have lost your desire for this, but you force yourself to perform as if you were a whore from a Hutt’s pleasure palace.</p><p>When you are feeling well and truly debased, he pulls himself out, and you wonder if all he really wanted was the knowledge that you would readily humiliate yourself on his request. He did not finish, but he softens and tucks himself back into his robes, and you are left with trails of saliva quickly cooling along the tattooed skin of your chin. With an absent bitterness, you realize you’ve never given a more passionless blowjob in your life, and that’s including the one time you got exceptionally drunk and sucked off Quinn in the medbay. <em>He</em> at least had the decency to squirm around and gasp every so often.</p><p>But this is your Emperor, and you are his Wrath, and if this is what it takes to prove yourself worthy of serving him, you would gladly do it a thousand times more.</p><p>You love your Emperor with the fanatical, blind piety of a worshiper embarking on a holy crusade.</p><p>Up until he devours a planet, and murders every living thing on it.</p>
<hr/><p>You prefer his son in many ways, because he is the opposite of his father. Where the Emperor was cold and distant, Arcann is perilously, violently <em>human</em>. He is a sharp tangle of insecurity and repressed rage, a maelstrom of raw want and hungry <em>need</em>. He maintains the veneer of icy composure, but under the surface dark and desperate emotions churn and bubble, searching for an outlet.</p><p>He has suffered under the Emperor in ways you know you will never understand, but you see some of yourself reflected in him. Both of you grew to maturity under the vast shadow of the Emperor, and you both fought and killed for slivers of his approval. It’s not Arcann’s fault <em>you </em>were the favored son, chosen above his biological offspring. You would give that burden to Arcann gladly, if it were possible. You wish for nothing more than to scrub yourself free of Valkorian’s influence.</p><p>Yes, you do like Arcann. And you would probably hate him less, if he wasn’t currently imprisoning you in carbonite.</p><p>Later, when Lana tells you that you were kept under for five years you will nod silently and agree. It’s not a lie, exactly, but neither is it completely true. You are Arcann’s most prized trophy, and it was only a matter of time before he took you off his shelf to lord his victory over you. You assume he's gotten bored gloating over someone in suspended animation.</p><p>When you defrost, it has been a year since you were frozen (although you will only find this out much later). You awaken to the sight of Arcann looming over you, and as you gradually come to your senses, you realize you are sprawled out on a bed, stripped out of your armor to your underclothes.</p><p>You seem to be alone, and you briefly contemplate attacking him and chancing a daring escape, but you quickly dismiss that idea as a wave of nausea rushes over you. You breathe in deeply until it passes, and then you manage to prop yourself up by an elbow, and from there upright into a hunched sitting position. The strain of your exertions, so soon out of carbon freeze, coats your skin in cold sweat. Arcann looks down at you, distinctly unimpressed.</p><p>“What is this?” you slur. Your tongue is still numb, and you bite down on it in a poorly-conceived attempt to regain some sensation. A coppery tang fills your mouth, but your tongue is still about as useless as it was a minute ago.</p><p>Arcann settles onto the bed beside you, and with a dismissive gesture uses the Force to knock you onto your back again. You groan, and don’t bother trying to get up a second time. “I’m curious about you,” he says after a pause. The electronic rasp from his mask lends a sinister edge to his voice. “My father’s favorite weapon, in the flesh.” His uncovered yellow eye flashes with resentment.</p><p>“We both served an indifferent master,” you say, hoping to reason with him. “But we are free to decide our own destinies now. We should be allies, as we were when we struck him down.” Privately, you doubt that the Emperor is completely gone. There is a sleeping, foreign presence in your mind that feels too much like <em>he</em> did… but you don’t think this is the time to share that information with Arcann.  </p><p>Arcann looks at you, the skin around his eye crinkling with amusement. “I did not bring you here to beg for your life,” he tells you dryly.</p><p>“Then why <em>am</em> I here?” you snap.</p><p>He shrugs. “As I said. I wanted to <em>know</em> you.” There are implications laced into that sentence you suspect you’d be better off not considering.</p><p>“I’m a servant of the Empire,” you tell him honestly. “My allegiance is to my people.” And it is a crude simplification, but it is also true: this is the sum of you, the distilled essence of your being. You have accepted that you will always have a master, but at least with Marr you realized your master could be more than just whoever styles themselves a king or godhead. You can serve the concept of duty; you can serve your nation itself- and the citizens who call it home.    </p><p>Arcann barks out a quick laugh at that, the sound escaping him like a jackal’s huff. “You are quite entertaining, Outlander. I am glad I decided against simply killing you.”</p><p>His human eye trails an unsubtle path down your exposed torso, lingering on the places where tangled knots of scar tissue meet intricate Sith tattoos. His face is impassive. You reach out with the Force, albeit weakly, and prod his aura for a sign of his motives. You feel a distant curiosity, and below that- something hostile and dark that mingles envy and lust. If he notices your intrusion, he says nothing.</p><p>“So many scars,” he comments with a feigned concern. “Why keep them all? I know of your people’s technology. You could’ve erased all of this… damage.”</p><p>This time you don’t tell him the truth: that each scar is an artifact of a priceless lesson: a few of success, but more of failure or loss. You cherish them all equally, even the ones that are relics of uglier days. To remove them would be tantamount to cutting away the memories that go with them and by that token- your history itself. Your story might be riddled with failures, but your victories were only built in thanks to the lessons those defeats taught you.  </p><p>You are a son of the great Sith Empire, and you wear the marks of both your triumphs and sins with pride. A flare of arrogance rises up like bile in your throat, and you almost reconsider not telling him. A part of you <em>wants </em>him to know, to <em>understand</em>. You are not some fragile pretender clad in conqueror’s garbs. You are Wrath incarnate, and war and all of its associated passions and pains are your dominion. With no small effort, you swallow down the temptation of honesty, and instead force an insolent smile to your lips. “They’re very popular with the ladies.”</p><p>Arcann makes a noncommittal sound, and silently reaches out, tracing a black, robotic finger down an old wound slicing across your midsection. You remember this one well. <em>Baras’s betrayal. </em>You burn with an echo of that old rage, and you comfort yourself with the knowledge that despite being left for dead, <em>you </em>still clung fiercely to life, and you crawled out of that rubble to avenge yourself. You will do the same here, you vow. You will avenge yourself on the entirety of Zakuul, this kingdom of bloat and waste and sickness.</p><p>“You are a fine specimen of your order,” Arcann compliments you, his flesh-and-blood hand rising up to brush against your lips. It’s a gesture designed to imitate the touch of a lover, but there’s a harshness behind it that cleanly dispels those gentle illusions.</p><p>You’re getting tired of the foreplay, and you’ve long since guessed at his ulterior motives here. “Just do it,” you tell him. “Fuck me already.”</p><p>To his credit, he doesn’t bother denying it. “You aren’t going to protest?” he asks, amused. His voice is smooth and reverberating, and despite yourself you sense a nascent arousal stir low and warm in your stomach.  </p><p>“I’d never resist an Emperor,” you reply, sly and low. You’re pleased when you see him flinch back, and his shoulders tense, the muscles there bunching. You brace yourself for a blow, but instead he merely growls, discarding his tunic and roughly pulling away your undergarments.</p><p>His body is well-built, with firm muscles that look like they have been battle-honed to possess a brutish strength. You’re irritated to find that you like what you see, and that faint heat of lust pulses straight to your groin. Now naked, you can’t hide the evidence of your arousal, and Arcann squeezes your rapidly hardening length. “You flatter me,” he tells you in a voice thickened with perverse combination of loathing and desire.</p><p>You don’t bother dignifying that with a response. There’s a small bottle beside the bed, and Arcann unceremoniously dumps most of the contents into his hand, and then pushes a finger inside of you. You wince at the abrupt intrusion, and Arcann’s aura illuminates with a cruel pleasure at your discomfort. His golden gaze brightens as he pushes in a second finger, causing you to suck in a deep, steadying breath.</p><p>“Did my father do this to you?” he asks, forcing in a third. His eye is narrowed, and the muscles in his jaw are tight. You imagine that under his mask, his lips are curled into a snarl. He works you open insistently and you find you’re somewhat grateful for the carbonite in this instance. Your muscles have never been more relaxed. But still, it does hurt somewhat, and you know that he’s eager to cause you more pain.</p><p>You cant your hips upwards, directing him to a more pleasurable angle, and to your faint surprise he adjusts his movements accordingly. But his eyes still shine with spite, and he continues to taunt you. “You were his favorite slave, after all.”</p><p>You offer him a hateful grin. “He liked my mouth.”</p><p>He yanks his fingers out of you suddenly, and then without further preamble spreads your thighs apart and rises to his knees, pulling your legs around him and pushing himself into you in a smooth motion. Without waiting for you to get used to him, he takes your hips and starts fucking you with a vicious, savage intensity. Your cock is fully erect now, leaking precum, and without slowing his brutal pace Arcann moves his flesh-and-blood hand from your waist to stroke it.</p><p>The combined stimulation is aggressive, but you have always enjoyed some measure of violence mingled in with your sex. It’s not long before you begin to edge close to orgasm, and you hope Arcann isn’t petty enough to deny you that release. “Wrath of the Empire,” he says, in a rough voice. “You belong to <em>me </em>now.” And you are not sure precisely why, but something in that is enough to push you past the brink, and you spill yourself into his hand. You tighten instinctively around him, and you feel his cock pulse as he groans out, finishing inside of you.</p><p>“I do wish you were not my enemy,” he tells you after, almost fondly.   </p><p>Your body is already sore, and pain flickers along your nerves. Still, you steady yourself and look him directly in the eye. “The next time we do this,” you promise, “your Empire will be mine, and it will be <em>my </em>cock buried inside of you.”</p><p>He almost collapses with laughter before he has you sent back to your carbonite tomb, but the Force rings with the weight of your vow.</p><p>It is many years later, but your promise to him is eventually fulfilled- he does swear himself to your service and pledge Zakuul to your alliance. And you take him as you told him you would, with his arms wrapped around you and your cock deep inside of him, as he murmurs your name like a prayer.       </p>
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